


366 Days

by Granger4013



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 03:09:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9052798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Granger4013/pseuds/Granger4013
Summary: Last Christmas Eve had brought heartbreak...
This Christmas Eve though...well, anything is possible.
While Myka goes through the motions of another Christmas Eve at her diner...an unexpected guest appears.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frogohj](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=frogohj).



> Happy Bering & Wells-mas!!
> 
> @frogohj told me to go where my muse took me for this Christmas, and my muse has been under the very heavy influence of Gilmore Girls lately, and it was demanding of a Bering and Wells twist. Myka, the small town diner owner; Helena, the single mom with big dreams and a messy family history...there's so much story potential...and what better way to start than with a little Christmas joy :-)

It was the one night a year that Myka stayed open late. She knew it was odd, to own a diner and never have it open late except on Christmas Eve, but when it came to the inhabitants of her sleepy, little hometown, well, odd was kind of their thing. Every other night of the year they were all typically in bed by nine o’clock, leaving Myka with no logical reason to stay open late, not when there was no one around to order. Six o’clock in the morning, _that_ was their time. Six o’clock in the morning there could be a line out the door waiting for breakfast, but once the clock moved past eight thirty at night? The entire place was a ghost town. Except on Christmas Eve.

The whole town made an exception for this one night. People ignored alarm clocks and instinct, not flooding out of churches or holiday parties until well after ten, and so Myka joined in the fray of making exceptions to typical rules. For this one night a year, she remained open, ready and waiting for the crowds with coffee, cocoa, and fresh gingerbread—another Christmas Eve exception. It gave the entire town an air of magic, people wandering the streets, lit by lamplight and the snow in the moonlight, for once actually savoring the night air, savoring the potential of what a late night evening could bring. On nights like this, it always felt as though _anything_ could happen.

Eventually, the last of Myka’s late night customers slid their coffee mugs across the counter, murmuring their sleepy, but joyful, “Merry Christmases,” to Myka, and wandering back out into the snow and the cold leaving the faint echo of the bell over the door in their wake. Myka turned up the radio on the counter, letting the gentle lilt of Christmas music drift around the space, the dulcet tones of “tidings of joy” her only companions as she maneuvered around the tables and chairs with well-honed movements, wiping down a table here, lifting chairs up and onto tables there. 

She paused for the briefest of moments, her gaze falling towards the town square outside the diner windows. Everything was awash in the glow of twinkle lights reflecting off of the fresh layer of snow that had fallen throughout the afternoon. Flurries still danced in the light and for one faint moment, Myka felt at peace, like she was the only one left in town and there could be nothing, no one to disturb her tranquility.

It lasted only a moment, that feeling, before reality and memory ricocheted back into Myka’s mind. The peaceful quiet replaced by deafening loneliness. The snow nothing but a reminder of _other_ winters, _other_ Christmas Eve’s spent in _happiness_. The echoing pang in her chest a reminder of _last_ Christmas Eve when her life had walked out the door of the diner in a rush of tears, apologies, and the flash of a diamond ring. 

With a sigh, she flipped the sign on the door over from open to closed and moved behind the counter to finish the task at hand of closing up as quickly and thoughtlessly as possible so she that she could just go upstairs, get into bed, and _forget_.

Her back was turned to the door when she heard the bell ring. _There’s always someone_ , she thought, idly calling out without looking behind her, “We’re closed,” assuming the late comers would recognize their mistake and make a quick exit.

“But I heard that this diner has the best gingerbread in all of Massachusetts, and that it was only available on Christmas Eve.”

Myka had thought that it was just a saying when people said that their heart skipped a beat, yet there was no better description for the stutter step that resounded in her chest at the sound of that voice. That voice which she hadn’t heard since last Christmas Eve.

She turned slowly, in full expectation of her _not actually_ being there. In fact, Myka was certain that this had to be some exhaustion induced hallucination, because Helena had _left_. Helena had left, saying she was getting married, leaving behind the shattered remnants of Myka’s heart and what they had almost been crushed underneath her leather clad heels.  
They hadn’t even been together at the time, hadn’t been together for months. They’d had a year, a year and two months, a year, two months, and one week of _perfection_ , which had eventually crumbled under the weight of complication, familial drama, and too many things to handle all at once. Myka had loved Helena, knew Helena loved her too, but they’d needed time, they’d needed space to figure out where to go next, and Myka had been alright with that, because she _knew_ they’d make it back to each other. The time, the space, they were temporary. They had built too much together to let it collapse, but then Helena had shown up at the diner last Christmas Eve and said that she was going to London. She was going to London to marry Nate, and somehow Myka had let her go with a smile on her face, waiting until Helena was long gone to cry and face her broken heart because she had _hoped_ that they were worth enough to figure out how to be happy. 

The sad truth was, Myka didn’t even blame her, not really. Forgiveness was one thing, but blame? Myka didn’t have the ability to make that a rational emotion to feel in this situation. She couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ begrudge Helena the need to _try_ with Nate. He was, after all, Christina’s father, and after everything Helena had been through, after everything Helena and Christina had been through, Myka couldn’t help but admit that they deserved the chance to be a family. It didn’t matter that Myka felt an odd sense of parental… _something_ …towards Christina. It didn’t matter that she was the one at her high school graduation, that she was the one who had helped Helena move her into Yale, that she was the one who made sure, day in and day out, that there was at least a grapefruit or a banana or a healthy _anything_ on the table in front of them, while Helena allowed Christina to drink gallons of coffee to chase down their shared pile of doughnuts. None of that mattered, because Nate was _Nate_ , and well…Myka knew she couldn’t compete with decades of shared history and a kid that was truly _theirs_.

Yet, despite all of that, there Helena stood, in the middle of the diner on _another_ Christmas Eve, snow melting into delicate, dancing crystals of light in her hair, looking far too beautiful, too apologetic, too much like everything Myka had spent months convincing herself she didn’t miss.

There were so many things Myka wanted to say, knew she should say, but she couldn’t find it in her to say any of them. Instead, she simply said the first thing that came to her mind, “Do you want coffee?” The words were so natural, so instinctual that Myka couldn’t have stopped her tongue from wrapping around the syllables even if she had tried.

“Myka…” Helena’s words started, stalled, reset in the face of Myka’s familiar movements: one hand nestling around the well-worn handle of the coffee pot, while the other fluidly, flawlessly flipped a mug over, at the ready to pour. She smiled carefully, “Sure.” The smell of the coffee, of _Myka’s coffee_ , heady, strong, visceral had Helena catapulting back over years and years of history, of mistakes, of almosts and maybes to that first day, that first not to be ignored demand for coffee. The day that began their story, their _everything_. Suddenly, all the words that she had planned on saying to Myka, the words she had carefully constructed on the drive back from Boston dissipated, long forgotten amidst the memory of Myka, of _her and Myka_. She took a hesitant step forward, the high sheen of her leather boots seeming incongruous against the cool blue linoleum tile of the diner floor. She felt off-kilter, out of place, uncertain how to move around this place that had once been like a second home, a place where she had felt comfortable and comforted mostly because Myka was there. With awkwardness dripping off of her, she fumbled one of the stools down from its upturned place on the counter, perching precariously on the edge of it, the heels of her boots hooked into its rungs in the hope that keeping them there would prevent them from bouncing on the tile and betraying how petrified she was to be sitting there.

Myka slid an oversized mug into Helena’s waiting hands, turning around to extract a container of half and half from one of the mini-fridges tucked under the back counter.

Helena murmured her thanks, choosing to focus for the moment on the task of pouring her cream, swirling a spoon through the dark depths of her mug, watching her coffee spiral into a pale shade of beige. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Myka, to watch the way she continued to move around the diner in her usual close of shop motions. It was all too normal, as if Helena had never left. Idly, she wondered if Myka was simply keeping up the front of going through the motions just so she could distract herself from the fact that Helena was there in the first place.

“Where’s Christina?” Myka asked, her voice even, not revealing if she was genuinely curious or just trying to dispel the uncomfortable awkwardness.

Helena fingers fumbled around her mug, feeling the warmth of it seep into her skin. “Oh…” she tucked her hair behind her ears nervously, “she’s back at the house. My father slipped her a bit too much holiday punch. Christmas morning may be arriving at our household with a hangover.” Helena attempted to laugh, but it died in her throat before it’d even really begun.

Myka’s lips pulled in an unconscious smile as she filed receipts from the register. She nodded slowly, “Right…the infamous Wells family Christmas soiree.”

“You remembered.” It was a statement, an indisputable fact, even if it left Helena’s mouth with awed breathlessness. 

_I remember everything_ , Myka thought, her mind flooded with memories of Helena’s family house, of nights just like this one which would bring Helena to this exact place, a stool and a cup of coffee, after a disastrous night of dinner at that house, regardless of whether or not she’d consumed any punch. “Side effects of a photographic memory,” is what Myka said instead of everything she was thinking.

Strained laughter fled Helena’s lungs, “Right. Of course. How could I forget?”

That statement earned the first betrayal of emotion on Myka’s face since the initial flood of shock that had drained her cheeks of color when she had realized that Helena _was_ , in fact, standing in the diner, defiantly ignoring the closed sign. Myka’s face, for one brief moment, flared with the desire to scream, to plead, to wonder _how could Helena forget?_ How could Helena dismiss so easily what they had had, what they had been building, or at least attempting to rebuild? How could Helena marry _him_ when _they_ were the ones who had once been talking about getting married? Those questions raced, unspoken, between them, leaving the once soothing air of the diner crackling with something dangerous, untenable, something very close to coming off the rails.

Myka abandoned the receipts inside the open drawer of the register, leaning against the back counter, arms folded, blunt nails digging into her biceps in an effort to rein in her control. 

Helena watched as Myka’s eyes dipped to Helena’s left hand, to the place Myka had seemingly been avoiding looking from the moment Helena had walked in. Helena tracked Myka’s every movement, from the deep inhale of her breath, to the expansion of her chest as the air filled her lungs, the way Myka’s fingers slowly unclenched, how her entire being seemed to deflate or possibly relax in the face of Helena’s _empty_ finger.

The truth was, Helena _hadn’t_ forgotten anything, not one ounce of her life here, of her life with Myka, of _Myka_ , her quirks, her eccentricities, the way _she_ took _her_ coffee when she actually drank it, the focused detail she put into something as seemingly insignificant as rolling up the sleeves of her shirt. She remembered _everything_ , down to Myka’s tiniest mannerism, which was how she _knew_ that Myka was preparing to say something. Selfishly though, Helena wasn’t ready for whatever it was. She’d been gone for a year, and had missed Myka acutely each of those three hundred and sixty-six days, _bloody leap year_ , and now sitting here, even after all that time, she wasn’t ready. She wasn’t ready to hear Myka say everything that she was fearing she’d say; that it was too late, that they’d had their chance and she had thrown it away, that Myka had found someone else. Out of that selfish need to stall, to have even just a few more minutes with Myka, Helena hastily spit out all the words she’d concocted along those miles from Boston.

“I never should have left. I _certainly_ never should have left like I did. Of course, there will always be a part of me that loves Nate. He _is_ Christina’s father, and for so long that filled me with a misguided sense of inevitability. Yet, I’ve never been _in love_ with him, at least not since I was sixteen. I never should have married him, ruined what you and I had. I know we had things to figure out, difficulties to manage, but Myka…it’s always been you. From the moment I walked into this damn diner…it’s been you. It’s been you and your generous heart and your _coffee_ and your sarcasm and the way you love Christina and the way we bicker and how you try to push disgustingly healthy food on me. I am in love with you Myka. _Only you_.”

Heavy, laden silence descended. The only sound that filled the diner was the crunch of tires slowly trekking across the snow covered streets and the muffled chime of the church bells ringing the hour. Myka hadn’t moved, hadn’t indicated that she even _cared_ about what Helena had said. The only sign that she gave that she had even _heard_ Helena was in the tell tale pulse of her jaw muscles, a signal that she was thinking, processing. It was another thing that Helena hadn’t forgotten.

As the minutes ticked away, Helena wondered if it was time to call it a loss, to leave, heartbroken but content to know that she had _tried_. This was entirely her fault, she knew that, owned that. Myka owed her nothing. It had been a worthwhile effort, showing up here, giving Myka her speech, but she couldn’t blame Myka for thinking it was far too little and far, far too late. 

She pressed her palms flat against the counter in an effort to get herself to stand. She was halfway there when Myka spoke, softly but certainly, “So, Christina’s at the house?”

“Yes…” It came out as a question, rather than an answer, as Helena hovered awkwardly over the stool, one boot still hooked in the rung, the other on the floor, though it felt woefully unsteady.

Myka remained rooted to her spot against the counter, her body not betraying one ounce of her thoughts. She shook her head, “I always found it odd that you didn’t sell. You went to London, but you kept your house here.”

Helena sat back down gingerly, uncertain where this line of conversation was going, “Well, London was always meant to be temporary.”

“So…” Myka’s eyes darted back down to Helena’s empty finger, “are you back? For real? For good?”

“Yes.” This was not the time for hesitation or hedged responses. There were many uncertainties hovering around Helena’s life at the moment, but there was one thing she _knew_ without reservation: her place was here.

Myka nodded, definitively, “Ok.”

Helena had expected more, for Myka to yell, to cry, to ask a thousand questions but those two syllables were all Myka said before she pushed off of the counter, heading immediately to the stairs at the back which lead to her apartment. 

Helena sat in stunned silence, listening to the faint echoes of Myka’s footfalls above her head. She wondered if she should leave. Myka’s swift departure had seemed like an unequivocal end to their conversation and yet something kept Helena there, frozen to the spot. She couldn’t say whether it was out of some foolish hope sprung from the fact that it hadn’t sounded like Myka had shut her apartment door, or just sheer devastation at the reality that this was how they had ended, not with a roar but with a deadened silence. Yet, _something_ kept Helena where she was, unwilling to move just yet.

Finally, Helena heard the telltale snap of Myka’s apartment door and it felt like her heart gave a woeful thump to match that signal of apparent defeat. She waited for a few more seconds before standing to leave, and it was those few precious seconds that brought her the sound of Myka’s footsteps coming back down the stairs. Now, Helena was certain that her heart was going to pound her swiftly into a heart attack because its speed coupled with the nervous adrenaline flooding her veins couldn’t possibly be safe.

When Myka reemerged downstairs, she seemed to Helena’s eyes more like the Myka she’d expected to find when she first walked in. Myka had shaken off her casualness, her attempts at nonchalance, and replaced them with the sheer, solid determination which Helena recognized so well. There was a set to her jaw, a glint of something unreadable in her eyes, her every step, every movement intentional. She came around to the front of the counter, stopping just out of arm’s reach from Helena. Taking a deep breath, she sat a small, wrapped box on the counter between them.

Helena stared agape at the box, its intricate wrapping, its small but very _obvious_ shape. She reached a tentative hand out to it before drawing back, looking up to meet Myka’s shining eyes, Myka’s _smile_. She sighed shakily, “Myka…”

Myka’s smile broadened, though Helena could trace the nervousness in her eyes, “Just open it. Please.”

With trembling fingers, Helena peeled off the delicately placed paper, noting the tag, _To my beloved Englishwoman, Love, Myka_. She laughed softly, feeling tears building behind her eyes. It was, _had been_ , a long running joke between them; whenever Helena was feeling particularly surly or picky, Myka would blame it on her proper upbringing, her hard-wired roots. It all seemed so long ago…

The box had a certain heft, feeling solid in Helena’s palm as she ran her fingertips over the fine velvet coating. With a patience she did not feel, she cracked the box open to find a small but no less elegant, devastatingly gorgeous diamond ring. It was just a simple square cut stone, nestled in a shining white gold band, a sharp contrast to the behemoth of a rock that had adorned Helena’s had mere weeks ago. 

Myka took a measured step towards Helena, reaching out a hand to cup underneath Helena’s, turning Helena’s palm had so that she could reach inside the box and pull out the ring. She turned it slightly between her fingers, letting it catch and sparkle in the overhead lights. A small, reminiscent, faraway kind of smile took over Myka’s features, “I was going to give this to you last Christmas…”

“Myka…” Helena wondered if she’d ever be allowed to get more than that one word out the rest of the night as Myka continued to talk without even acknowledging her attempt to cut in.

“I kept it in my nightstand from the moment you told me you were leaving. I debated unwrapping it, debated returning it, but I couldn’t let go of this goddamn nagging _hope_ ; hope that our story couldn’t possibly end like that. So I kept it, no matter how many times that hope dimmed. It just sat there…waiting for you to come home, and now…here you are…standing right in front of me.”

“I _am_ home, Myka. I’m here. For good. I know you probably feel no reason to believe that.”

“I believe it.”

“Why?” Helena asked with no lack of shock.

Myka chuckled. It was small, a little incredulous, a little self-deprecating, but a chuckle nonetheless. She palmed the back of her neck, a gesture Helena realized she had missed desperately. Myka gave her a soft smile, “Because I still have the receipt from the first time you came in here and demanded coffee. The one where you wrote you’d be back despite my rude refusal to give you a _fourth_ cup.” Myka took a step closer, close enough to share breath, to almost touch, “Because it’s always been you for me too. You and your crazy, big dreams, and your pop culture references, and your fierce independence.” There was another step, another step closer, “And your coffee addiction and your smile and your loyalty and the fierce way you love that kid of yours. Because I have always know that I would only ever truly love you.”

Tears rimmed Helena’s eyes as she sucked in a shaky breath, “I have screwed so many things up, Myka…”

Myka laughed warmly, “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Helena grinned, but it retreated quickly. She shook her head slowly, “I didn’t come here looking for this,” she gestured vaguely at the ring Myka still held between her fingers.

“What _did_ you come looking for?”

“Honestly? I don’t know. Possibly just the assurance that you didn’t hate me. I didn’t dare hope for anything more.”

Myka glanced down at the ring, “Definitely don’t hate you.”

“What do we do now? What is our next step here?”

“Well, I think that first we need to deal with the question that comes with this ring.”

Helena sucked in a tight breath, “Ok…”

Myka smirked, holding the ring out to Helena, “Will you…Helena Wells…have dinner with me tomorrow night?”

Laughter burst out of Helena, “That’s some ring for that question.”

Myka nodded with a playful grin, “Oh yeah, just wait until you see what the dinner _and a movie_ ring looks like.”

“I can only imagine.” Helena fidgeted from foot to foot, her nerves firing on all cylinders, “Are you serious, Myka?”

“About dinner? Yes, unequivocally. I know it’s Christmas, but I am more than willing to save Christina from whatever take-out Christmas dinner you have planned _or_ , hell, I’ll even partake in it, if that’s what you want.”

“Well, traditionally, Christmas means Chinese food and ‘A Christmas Story’ in our house.”

“That sounds perfect to me.”

“We quote _mercilessly_. We talk through the _entire_ thing.”

Myka rolled her eyes, “Yeah, I know. I’ve watched _hundreds_ of movies with you two. I still maintain… _perfect_.”

“So…that…” Helena gestured again to the ring, “It’s a _dinner_ proposal?”

Myka nodded, “It’s a dinner proposal with the hope of many more, with the hope that we can get back to where we were. If you still want that, want us…”

“I want _you_. I want nothing more than everything we could build together. I’m sorry I never said that before.”

Myka’s smile bent with a hint of sadness as she reached out and tugged at Helena’s fingers, “I don’t want apologies. I don’t need them. I just…I need a yes to dinner.”

“Dinner is an _absolute_ yes.”

“Good,” Myka’s chuckle was watery. She gave Helena’s fingers a squeeze, “I’m going to put this on your finger now.”

“Please do. I want this dinner to be _official_.”

Carefully, Myka slid the ring onto Helena’s finger, linking their hands together and tugging, drawing Helena into her arms with a coy smile, “There. We are now officially _having dinner_.”

Helena laughed lightly, her free hand coming up to toy with the ends of Myka’s curls, “I have missed you so damn much.”

“That feeling is entirely mutual.” Myka tilted her head slightly and whispered, “I’m going to kiss you now.”

“ _Finally_ ,” Helena smirked.

Three hundred and sixty-six days. Three hundred and sixty-six days since Helena had felt the surety, the intensity, the stomach flipping heat that came from Myka’s lips on hers. Their last kiss had been selfish on her part, needing one to remember, even as she was telling Myka that she was leaving with Nate. This kiss was nothing like that kiss. That kiss had been mournful, had been _goodbye_. This kiss was laced with new beginnings and familiarity and _coming home_. It lasted only a moment, and Helena didn’t push for more, knowing that this was enough for now, for tonight, because they had _time_.

When they broke apart, Helena thrilled to see the flush in Myka’s cheeks, the heaviness of her breathing. She pressed a chaste peck to Myka’s mouth, “Merry Christmas, Myka.”

“Merry Christmas.”

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow? For dinner?”

“I’ll be there… _with_ pie.”

“A Christmas miracle,” Helena beamed, knowing Myka would understand that her words applied to so much more than pie.

They said good night and Helena moved to the door feeling like she was leaving the diner an entirely different person than when she had walked in. As she turned the door knob, she felt a hand wrap around her other wrist, tugging her back. She turned, “Darling?”

Myka didn’t say anything, just pulled her up into a much more heated kiss, one that wasn’t welcome home, but please never leave again. They pulled apart with labored breath; Myka’s smile was competing with the overhead lights for which was brighter, “I forgot one thing.”

“And what is that?” Helena asked breathlessly.

“I love you.”

Helena’s heart fluttered, beginning to beat faster in her chest, “I love you too.”

Myka smiled softly, letting out a sigh that seemed somehow…relieved, “Get home safe. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“For dinner…”

“And wherever dinner takes us.”

Helena didn’t think, just spoke, “How does forever sound?” 

“Dinner and a movie night with you and Christina, _plus_ forever? I’m going to need a better word than perfect.”

“Let me know tomorrow what you come up with.”

“I promise you, I will.”

Helena smiled brightly, finally stepping out of the diner and back into the cold, crisp air, the snow falling all around her. She breathed in deeply, letting the winter night fill her and she decided that _coming home_ had never felt so right, so… _perfect_.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope each and every one of you has a beautiful holiday season, whatever you may celebrate, however you may celebrate. Thanks for making this little corner of the internet amazing and filled with endless wonder!


End file.
